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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577026">Who Killed Daniel Jacobi?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile'>BoxOnTheNile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Moral Dysregulation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Time Bombs (Podcast), Wolf 359 (Radio)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Daniel has Survivor's Guilt, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Moving On, Prequel, it's very unhealthy, mentions of past kepcobi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:20:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577026</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Daniel Jacobi is dead. Mark Midland is not.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also, smiley face notes, fantastic cat names, and whatever the stages of grief are.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daniel Jacobi &amp; Warren Kepler &amp; Alana Maxwell, Simon Teller &amp; Robert "Radio Bob" Hansen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Moral Dysregulation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1297190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Who Killed Daniel Jacobi?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I was part of Wolf 359's first Zine! And did a crossover piece, because I Do What I Want. It was incredible to work with so many amazing artists and writers, and one of the comic pieces is even the beginning of this fic!</p><p>Find the zine <a href="https://sites.google.com/view/welcome-to-wolf-359-zine/home?authuser=0">here</a>.</p><p>The stray cat in this fic is named after my favorite local dumbass, Mister Terrence Yaki, 2007-2020. I miss you, you giant baby.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s funny, almost.</p><p>Daniel Jacobi dies with little fanfare. There’s a gravestone in Milwaukee next to <em>Alana Sarah Maxwell</em> and <em>Warren James Kepler</em>. </p><p>Mark Midland, however, suddenly has to remember how to live.</p><p><em>Mark Midland</em>. It’s a reminder, in a way, of what killed Daniel Jacobi. Goddard’s penchant for atrocity and his own damn inability to pick a side until he’s already lost everything.</p><p>New name needs a new place. There’s too much history everywhere he’s put roots before. He honestly considers throwing a knife at a map and going to the most destroyed spot, but that feels melodramatic even for <em>him</em>.</p><p>He thinks about trying Chicago for half a second before remembering that the accent Kepler tried so hard to bury was Chicagoan and spends a few moments trying to remember exactly what his voice sounded like. He’s not sure he can, and he feels so completely and utterly alone for a moment he feels like he's drowning.</p><p>Daniel makes all his life changing decisions drunk, it seems, because he’s halfway through a shitty bottle of tequila when he looks at a map and thinks, New York.</p><p>Which is a terrible idea, really. Minkowski lives in New York, somewhere near Albany he thinks, and while the odds of running into them are low, they’re <em>non-existent</em> elsewhere. <em>Any</em> elsewhere. He could go to fucking Seattle and never see or hear from them again, guaranteed.</p><p>Oh, goddamnit.</p><p>He beats his head against the steering wheel the whole drive to New York City. A safe distance, a city big enough to fall quietly into obscurity while the news televises live updates on the continuing collapse of Goddard Futuristics.</p><p>And if he’s within driving distance of the other Hephaestus survivors, that's no one's business but his.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He drinks. It’s… It should be Alana's birthday, but instead of blowing something up while she hangs off his arm and laughs, she’s gone, dead, body incinerated in a star eight fucking light-years from here and he should be angry or heartbroken or bargaining or whatever the stages of grief are. Instead, he’s just hollow.</p><p>He’s edging on his sixth shot in an hour and a half when there’s a sudden scream. The bar starts to empty immediately, and when he stands, the floor pitches under his feet. A waitress steadies him and guides him towards the door.</p><p>“What’s going on?” he slurs, and the waitress adjusts her grip.</p><p>“Someone… someone thinks they saw a bomb,” she says, voice a little shaky. “We already called the police, all we have to do is evacuate. Looks like it’s on the house tonight.”</p><p>Daniel realizes with sudden clarity that this is why he sided with the Hephaestus <em>morons</em> despite it all: people are <em>amazing</em>. This woman is scared out of her mind, and she’s taking the time to help a complete stranger get to safety, cracking a joke to try and keep <em>him</em> calm.</p><p>He tries to turn around and go back inside, he bets he can take apart some shitty IED even three sheets to the wind like this, but the waitress holds her ground. “No no nonono, you get to come outside with me and wait while I check if I need to give a statement, then I’ll take you home, okay?”</p><p>“I’m gay,” he tells her.</p><p>“I’m ace, so definitely not trying to sleep with you, sir. Just want to make sure you get home.”</p><p>His hangover the next morning is agonizing, but there’s a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers left near the couch he was dumped on. There’s a note with nothing but a smiley face doodled on it.</p><p>No name. No way to be paid back, no need for a thank you, not even a <em>bigger picture</em> to try and attain. Just a stranger helping a stranger, because she was a good person.</p><p>Daniel Jacobi had never been a good person. He doubted <em>Mark Midland</em> knew how to be, either, but maybe he could try, or at least <em>pretend</em>.</p><p>Wouldn’t that be something?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Daniel has a very specific skill set. He’s been trained in hand-to-hand, proficient with most firearms, and is pretty decent with knives. </p><p>He’s very, <em>very</em> good at explosives.</p><p>There’s where the problem arises, really. If he wants to try and do something <em>good</em> with his unique talent with things that break other things, his options are incredibly limited. He’s done military work—<em>my team, my project, my head</em>—and he’s not sure it falls under “good person” territory. </p><p>(He’s not certain he can bear going back to the Air Force, honestly. That version of him died long ago, beaten out of him on the SI-5 training mats, killed by aged scotch and a bigger <em>fucking</em> picture.)</p><p>He opens the window to his fire escape and sets out a cheap plastic dish. Moments later, a dirty orange tabby hops up into the sill.</p><p>“What do you think, Teriyaki?” he asks, scratching at the cat’s ears. “Am I capable of morals?” A raspy purr rumbles from the cat. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He ducks back inside and his eye catches on the smiley face note from two weeks ago.</p><p>He scoffs. It’s a stupid idea. It’s insane. It’s <em>absurd</em>.</p><p>He pulls up his laptop and searches <em>Explosive Ordinances Technician</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s almost perfect. <em>Mark Midland </em>is a registered Air Force vet with a degree from MIT (he wasn’t giving up that degree, it was a fucking nightmare to get), the exact qualifications needed to apply for the EOD training program. He spends eight weeks bored to tears and passes the certification exam with flying colors.</p><p>Six private companies make him offers. He turns them down.</p><p>He picks the city’s public EOD service.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>Mark Midland </em>is introduced to Unit 214–and he actually flinches when he hears that–on January first. He hates New Year’s, always has, and it makes sense that this new part of his life would start on the second worst day of the year. He shakes the hand of the man that will be overseeing his probation, and is struck by just how unassuming he is.</p><p>Simon Teller is disheveled in a way that Daniel wouldn’t expect from a EOD tech, with an easy-going grin and slouched posture. “Mark Midland?” he asks.</p><p>“That’s me, sir,” Daniel answers, and Teller shudders dramatically.</p><p>“Yeah, no. Not sir.”</p><p>Daniel drops his hand. “Um. You’re my… commanding officer, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Comman—Bob! Why didn’t you tell me the new guy was ex-military?”</p><p>Teller directs the shout towards a man seated at a nearby desk. He shrugs. “It was in his file, boss.”</p><p>“You say that like I <em>read the file</em>.”</p><p>The man sighs with fond exasperation. Daniel can tell they’ve been working together for years, have a genuine friendship, catalogues three ways to sabotage it before quashing old habits. “Mark Midland,” the man says, opening a file folder on his desk, “thirty-five, graduated MIT–con<em>grats</em>, man–and the only reason he didn’t get full marks on the certification exam was a few minor deviations from protocol.”</p><p>“Who follows protocol anyway?”</p><p>“<em>You</em> should.” The man reaches across the desk to shake Daniel's hand. “Robert Hansen. Simon calls me Radio Bob.”</p><p>Daniel's stomach turns sharply–<em>he remembers the screaming in his voice from outside the module, but Eiffel named the alien “Bob” like it wasn’t eldritch and terrifying–</em>but he was trained better than to let it show. “Look forward to working with you.” He’s screaming on the inside. </p><p>Bob just smiles, easy and genuine in a way that sets Daniel <em>reeling</em>. “Me too, man,” he says, and Daniel reads that it’s the truth in his body language and the pulse of the wrist still under his fingertips. </p><p>The two of them are already so <em>different</em> from the team he used to call his family, and he isn’t sure if he hates them for it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So, up top is getting on my ass about your psych eval,” Teller says casually, about six weeks in. </p><p>“What's wrong with my psych eval?” Daniel asks.</p><p>“You don't <em>have</em> one.”</p><p>“I definitely sent one in.”</p><p>“Outdated. Look,” Teller tells him, “I get it. It's awful. But you have to dot all your i’s for the next ten months, and one of those is redoing your psych eval. <em>I’m</em> in therapy, Midland. Comes with the job.”</p><p>He drops his eyes to his desk. “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“And please stop calling me sir.”</p><p>“Not going to happen, sir.”</p><p>He schedules an appointment without complaint—get it done before <strike>Kepler</strike> Teller gets frustrated and he pays for it—and the next Wednesday finds him filling out a questionnaire in a boring office. It's easy; he knows the answers they want to see.</p><p>The therapist flips through his answers twenty minutes later. “How often have you done these?”</p><p>“A lot,” Daniel admits.</p><p>“I can tell. All these answers point to a healthy, well-adjusted human being.” She sets the clipboard in her lap. “Which you are not.”</p><p>Daniel laughs, shocked. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“I’ve worked with the Hazardous Devices Unit for eight years, Mr. Midland. Not one of you is well-adjusted.” She writes on the clipboard. “I’ll sign off on your ability to work, but it’s conditional. I want you to make an appointment to come back. If you don’t like any of our therapists, we’ll work with you to connect you with someone else.”</p><p>“You… want me to come back?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Daniel is a little shocked. As long as he was within “acceptable parameters” with Goddard, they saw no reason to assign him a counselor. Alana saw one for several months after Istanbul, but other than that…  “But I'm fine.”</p><p>“And I’m just going to verify that,” she says patiently. “Think of it as an extension of the eval.”</p><p>Begrudgingly, he sets up another appointment.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>At three months, Teller raises his voice. He and Daniel disagree on how to handle an ordinance and they argue about it. Daniel caves because he <em>has</em> to, Teller is his commanding officer, but he makes it very clear he’s not happy about it.</p><p>It’s the first time Teller yells at him. It’s not even a <em>threat</em>, like Daniel was accustomed to, but he still flinches, braced for a blow or a bullet while several of his scars ache with phantom pains. </p><p>Teller’s voice lowers <em>immediately</em>. “Midland?” he asks. He lifts his hands, showing his empty palms, and steps back. “You… you can put your arm down, Mark, I’m not gonna hit you.”</p><p>Daniel hadn’t even realized he’d raised his arm to protect his face. Slowly, he puts it down. “Of course not, sir,” he says, flat and apathetic. </p><p>Teller takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “If I’m overstepping, tell me to fuck off, but… is there a girlfriend we need to get you away from?”</p><p>Daniel’s face twists with an odd mix of offense and incredulity. “What? No, I…” He trails off as it clicks in his head <em>exactly</em> how fucked up the… <em>thing</em> he had with Kepler was. “It's already over.”</p><p>Teller bumps his shoulder against Daniel’s, the disagreement already forgotten. “Let us know if you need a place to stay for a day or two, huh?”</p><p>Daniel has no plans to take him up on that. “Alright, Boss.”</p><p>“Boss!” Teller repeats. “Yes, let’s do that one instead of ‘sir’.”</p><p>“Not happening, sir,” Daniel says.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“... And then he<em> shot</em> me, who the fuck does that?”</p><p>“Is that when you left him?” Naomi didn’t seem fazed by the fact Daniel’s “ex-boyfriend” had pulled a gun on him.</p><p>Daniel drops back to the couch in the counseling office, flings one arm across his eyes. “No, because I’m a fucking idiot. It wasn’t until he got my sister killed that I realised… he never actually cared. Not in a way that mattered.”</p><p>“Your sister?”</p><p>“Not by blood. I picked her. I… I loved Alana more than anyone else in the fucking universe, and… It should’ve been me.” His eyes burn. “Instead, he got her killed, and I… I turned my back on him, and now he’s dead, too, and I don’t have anyone else.”</p><p>“No family?”</p><p>“You mean the one that won’t call me by my name? No.”</p><p>She nods. “I understand. Mark, do you have… <em>any</em> personal relationships outside of work?”</p><p>Daniel thinks of a panic-fueled kiss, dark curls tangled in his fingers, Eiffel’s confused expression when he broke for air. “I… have a stray cat I feed?”</p><p>She nods. “Pets are a good source of companionship. What’s its name?”</p><p>“Mister Teriyaki, because I saw him digging fish out of a sushi place’s garbage.”</p><p>She bursts into laughter. “That’s a fantastic name.” She looks down at her notes. “Mark, with your permission, I want to set you up with a grief counselor.”</p><p>Daniel scoffs and props up on one elbow. “For <em>what</em>?”</p><p>Naomi stares at him. And stares. </p><p>Daniel drops back to the couch and groans. “Okay. Fine. But only if he’s hot.”</p><p>“I’ll do my best,” she says. “Thank you, Mark.” She pauses. “If I may, what’s <em>really</em> your name?” When Daniel looks at her with shock and fear, she lifts her hands in a peacemaking gesture. “I’m not going to get you in trouble, and if it’s something like Witness Protection, feel free to shut me down now.”</p><p>“Not… not quite,” Daniel says softly. “I… did some bad things for some bad people and I want to do better. Be better.”</p><p>“Kindness is shown in actions, not inclinations,” she says softly. “I don’t need details, I volunteer with reacclimating gang members. I see some of the same mannerisms in you.”</p><p>He laughs, short and soft. “Yeah, something like that.” A beat. “Daniel.”</p><p>She smiles, and it’s genuine. “It’s nice to meet you, Daniel.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Daniel Jacobi has long been a monster. He finds a certain joy in devastation, a contentment in ash and flame, and he left his compassion at a bar top when he picked a business card.</p><p>Daniel Jacobi is dead, buried more than 700 miles away in Milwaukee next to the only two people he ever considered family, and Mark Midland is left to pick up the pieces.</p><p>And, surprisingly, he does. He coaxes a dirty orange stray into his apartment and learns that the dumb cat drools when its happy. He goes to <em>therapy</em>, learns to grieve and accept and while he never really lets go of that <em>guilt,</em> it doesn’t feel like dying to think of them anymore. He still wakes up screaming some nights–<em>”happy to help” over his lips and it feels so right at the time but later he would rather claw out his own tongue than ever say it again</em>–but slowly, slowly, the terror and fury and pain of the Hephaestus starts to fade.</p><p>So it’s funny, almost, that the day that should mark the beginning of this hopeful new start brings <em>Daniel </em>back from the dead.</p><p>“Midland! Come here,” Teller calls, and Daniel’s heart pounds the whole way to the EOD van, because next to him, somehow, is Isabel Lovelace. “This is Tatiana Sobrero, she’s a reporter. Up top says we have to let her ride with us tonight.”</p><p>“You won’t even know I’m there,” Lovelace says, and Daniel?</p><p>Daniel meets her eyes and shakes her hand and dares her to try and take this from him. “Mark Midland.”</p>
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